


High Stakes

by musicmillennia



Series: The Unusuals [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Athos' voice could dry up the ocean, Brotherhood, D'Artagnan's not having a good day, Friendship, Gen, Wooden Stakes, yes the title is a pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are sent to Lupiac, a village in Gascony, to confront a newly turned vampire. They arrive a little late, but it's the result that counts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Stakes

**Author's Note:**

> So this show literally came out of nowhere and snatched me in a back alley. Since I have a thing for magic and creatures, of course I had to do something with either vampires, werewolves, witches, whatever. Vampires happened to be posted first.
> 
> I tried to keep the characters as much of themselves as possible. Do inform me if I've made any egregious errors.

"I am afraid that you fine gentlemen are too late," the head of the village of Lupiac, Monsieur Batignole, smirked, gesturing to a hill silhouetted against the sunset, "We have, as you can see, disposed of our problem."

Athos glanced at the impaled body for a brief moment, then returned his eyes to the portly gentleman. Upon which he asked, in his usual aloof tone, "Who was he?"

"He used to be a local boy, son of a farmer called Alexandre D'Artagnan. Alexandre was well-respected around here." Batignole sighed, "Tragic what happened. A nest of the monsters, right under our noses, came in the night and slaughtered nearly half of our already meager population, including the poor child's father. A few were turned, but none made it through, thank God. Well, all but poor Charles, of course. We had no choice."

"On behalf of the King's Musketeers, we thank you for your service," Aramis told him with the utmost solemnity, taking off his hat and bowing to add to his formal cadence. "We will take this off your hands."

Batignole smiled with apparent relief. "Thank you, gentlemen. That is all I ask. May your journey back to Paris be a safe one."

Farewells and other pleasantries exchanged, the four men separated, three towards the base of the hill, one to his friends to inform them of what had transpired.

In no time at all, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were all standing directly in front of Charles D'Artagnan's head. The stake that held him five feet from the ground was driven into the dirt firmly, the sharp tip of the wood stabbing right through Charles' stomach, leaving his body to fall limp around it. His lips, pale and parted, revealed the tip of new fangs.

"Looks promisin'," Porthos offered.

"Indeed," Athos replied, arms crossed, "Well-built, though hardly older than eighteen by the look of him."

"Yeah, 'e's a tiny one, ain't 'e?"

"Childlike. Perhaps you were wrong in your assessment."

Silence met their comments; the figure remained placid.

Athos sighed, sounding put-upon. Porthos chuckled, "Aramis?"

Aramis reached out...and flicked the boy's cheek. Hard.

Suddenly the face twitched, and a pair of big brown eyes were glaring at them. Charles D'Artagnan, especially upside-down, couldn't look intimidating if he tried. At least, not to the trio before him, who only received his hostility with varied degrees of false innocence.

"What's with the face?" Aramis asked, "We only wish to talk."

D’Artagnan's eyes narrowed further. "Blowing my cover, more like."

"Your impression of a dead person is superb," Athos placated, though the effect was dampened by his dry tone, "Unfortunately, it will do you no good given your current situation."

The younger man scoffed, "First insults, then you hit me, and now a lecture."

"Come on, don't be like that," Porthos grinned, "We were just hopin' to get a rise outta you so you'd move on your own."

"And I barely hit you," Aramis added.

"You could have just asked me to move," D’Artagnan muttered.

"If we had, would you have done it?" Athos' words were met with telling quiet. "Your village's ignorance saved your existence, but you will need to rely on others with more experience to ensure its continuation."

"Others like you?" D’Artagnan retorted.

"Precisely."

Aramis spoke then. "Come with us," he urged, gesturing to himself and his companions, "We'll see you safely to Paris, where we can teach you to harness your new abilities and control your thirst. Once that's done, you can go wherever you like. Although I would not recommend visiting your favorite cow anytime soon."

A pause followed as D’Artagnan considered this. "Why should I trust you?" he asked at length.

"You know what we are just as we know what you are," Porthos said quietly, as if someone from Lupiac could hear him from that distance.

"That is hardly an incentive," D'Artagnan pointed out, "considering the last time I trusted a vampire, my father died in my arms." There was a whole other story behind that, one that needed to be brought to light, but the three didn't want to waste time talking about it when they had a more pressing task.

Instead, Aramis began to walk slowly around D’Artagnan’s staked body. As he did, he said in a deceptively confused voice, "Strange, that you are a vampire, and yet the sun does not burn you to ash."

D’Artagnan's jaw set. "I could say the same about you, messieurs."

Aramis smiled genially, pivoting at D’Artagnan's dangling legs in order to stalk back to his head. "But we have a perfectly good explanation for that. What's your excuse?"

Another silence followed, so Porthos answered for him: "We know you've still got your soul, boy. Settle down," he added, hands up as the boy’s scent spiked with anxiety, "As you can see, we've got ours too."

"Vampires without souls cannot be trusted under any circumstances," Aramis said, hands on his hips as he leaned towards D’Artagnan's face. "Vampires  _with_ souls, well...we have some integrity, don't we, Porthos?"

"I'd say so," Porthos replied, "Enough to earn a commission with the King's Musketeers, anyway."

D’Artagnan blinked, as if just noticing the pauldrons on their shoulders. He'd probably lost so much blood by now though that none of them were all that much surprised. At this rate, it was a miracle the boy wasn't foaming at the mouth to feed, let alone have an intelligent conversation. Such fortitude would help him, Athos idly mused.

"My father," D’Artagnan swallowed, "he spoke about the Musketeers often. He said they were honorable men, that I should strive to be like them."

Aramis put a hand on his heart, sharing an overly fond look with Porthos. "We are touched by the sentiment."

"So...even if you still have your souls, other vampires, they--they don't try to--" he cut himself off, though he had every right to worry. Vampires were a proud race, one that preferred to exist as they were meant to, with their souls leaving their bodies upon turning. Therefore, when they came across one of their own who had been granted their souls, their reaction was less than genial. And that was putting it mildly.

"No," Athos replied, "We are under the king's protection."

"It also helps that we're good at our jobs," Porthos said.

" _Very_ good," Aramis boasted.

D’Artagnan hummed. “So, say I come with you,” he said, “Would I have a chance to join the Musketeers?”

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all shared one of their looks, conversing silently. Not a moment later, Aramis gave D’Artagnan his best smile.

“There is certainly no harm in trying, if you answer our Captain’s questions truthfully once we return to our garrison.”

“Trying?” D’Artagnan smirked, “I’ll earn my commission by the end of this year.”

“Oh? And if you do not?”

“Then next year.”

Porthos chuckled, “Determined, are yah?”

“Stubborn is the word I would use,” Athos said, merely raising an eyebrow when D’Artagnan shot him a glare.

“Will you get me down now?” the boy snapped, wiggling his fingers. A wise move, since the villagers might still be looking. So far, it seemed like three Musketeers were only examining and speaking about what to do with this vampire’s body upon their return to Paris.

Aramis stared at him for a minute. The other’s face twitched in suspicion, but otherwise he made no comment as he was scrutinized. There was a fire in this one’s eyes, Aramis noticed; it was the kind of flame he’d recognized in Porthos and his own reflection, as well as Athos when the man was focusing wholly on a mission or opponent. He knew his companions had seen it, or were discovering it now with him, for they shifted behind him in a stance Aramis knew as their decision-making positions: Athos’ chin rose minutely, body straightening just so, while Porthos’ shoulders squared and his eyes set ahead at his goal.

Yes, they were taking this one. Whether or not they took him not just to the garrison but into their fold remained to be seen, but Aramis considered himself the occasional optimist.

“In a while,” he finally said, backing up, “perhaps when night falls.”

“ _What_?” D’Artagnan hissed, “But—I can still play dead, you know!”

“Oh, we know,” Porthos shrugged, “you just need to learn some manners first.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That, right there. Snapping and growling at your superiors—hardly Musketeers behavior.”

Athos led the way down the hill, D’Artagnan’s muttering snarling in his, Aramis’, and Porthos’ ears all the way to the village. Yet the young man didn’t even fidget on his stake; even when he was frustrated, he kept his head relatively on straight.

“Boy,” Athos called to a nearby local, who immediately rushed over. “Tell Monsieur Batignole that we will be returning to Paris with the corpse at nightfall.”

Once the boy had run off to inquire where Batignole was, Porthos turned to his friends. “What do you think?” he asked.

Athos sighed through his nose, eyes straying to the hill where D’Artagnan had fallen quiet, resuming his façade. “Raw, but as you said, promising,” he concluded, “let us hope he refrains from doing something too stupid before we can transport him.”

“I wonder what Tréville will think,” Aramis wondered, “Maybe he’ll enjoy having a fellow Gascon around.”

Porthos tilted his chin, “Or he’ll wanna punch somethin’. Gascons aren’t known for smooth tongues.”

Athos started trekking towards the horses; he wanted to check the extra bottles of blood in his saddlebags. It wasn’t something he needed to do, but it was something to occupy himself for a few moments.

“Either way,” he said, “I have a feeling we will be seeing much of this D’Artagnan.”

Aramis and Porthos shared a smile behind his back. Yeah, they were taking him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! There's a deeper plot here, so if anyone wants a continuation, that'd be okay with me. Let me know in the comments :)


End file.
